Beauty and Praise
by kittykatloren
Summary: No amount of adoring fans, no number of exhilarating contest victories, could replace the company of the one woman he missed the most. Wallace/Winona, Gracefulshipping oneshot.


**A/N: **Oops, this was posted without this intro or line breaks for a bit. My bad. Anyway, just another introspective/almost-fluff Wallace and Winona fic.

FF has been going through a dry spell lately with reviews, so... please let me know what you think. Anything at all really feels great. Anonymous, whatever, I don't care - just PLEASE leave a review if you read. I know I get hits, but not so many reviews, and I always wonder why. So yeah! Please leave a review, and enjoy!

**Words: **1354**  
Characters:** Wallace, Winona  
**Time: **Anytime after Hoenn saga  
**Genre:** Drama/Romance

**Disclaimer: **Everything you recognize belongs to whoever actually owns the characters. Not me.

* * *

He smiled vaguely at the thick pack of women and girls around him; all he really cared about was performing. Bowing only a little, he swung his arm regally toward the crowd, each of his own movements carefully practiced to ensure the perfect display of elegant, simple prowess. He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and nodded at his wonderful Pokémon. They knew what to do. In the heat of the moment, under the light of the stage and the eyes of the world, he had only to act.

And what beautiful acting it was. The dance-like steps he employed with his team calmed any loose nerves, soothed away any lingering aches and pains from battle training. Wallace waited until every last echo of applause left the air. Then he bowed once more, winked ostensibly at the girls behind him, and listened with gentle pleasure as the crowd roared into admiration once more.

"Wallace! Oh, Wallace, please, won't you sign my bag?"

"Look, look, _it's him_! Oh, I'm going to faint - "

"He's looking at me – I swear it, he looked _right_ at me! Wallace!"

The shouts echoed, stale and empty, in his ears. Too familiar. He didn't stop as he walked past the barely restrained rows of giggling and dithering girls, all of whom were staring longingly at him and bitterly at the trickle of cheerleaders that followed behind Wallace, with his permission, of course.

At every contest, he let that lucky group of girls drape their arms around him, twirl his hair between their fingers, straighten his clothes and stare regally down at all who tried to usurp their positions. They alone, out of his all of his many fans, were permitted to fawn over Wallace, ride in his car, receive his sparkling smiles.

They could not replace the exhilaration of a contest. Or even a battle. No, they could not continue that beautiful feeling of belonging, skill, and dexterity Wallace claimed when performing or fighting.

Nor could they replace the company of the one woman he missed the most.

He always smiled rather sardonically when this last thought crept stealthily into his mind, as if it knew it had no right to be there. Those memories were pointless now; she had made that quite clear to him.

The girls all yelped in surprise as Wallace pressed hard on the accelerator, making the car shoot forward without any of its usual ease. But when they settled back down in their seats, Wallace let their squeals of praise and flattery float around him, as empty as ever. The infinitesimal twitch of his lips was the only evidence of his somewhat jaded amusement.

Without a backward glance, he sped onwards, thinking – as he always did – of what truly allowed him to excel in his element. Sure, he loved his incredible talent, his infectious popularity, his adoring fans.

But it was not himself whom he loved most of all. It never had been.

* * *

"Your mail's here," Winona said tartly one afternoon, when Wallace had just walked in the door after a week away in Sootopolis City, his hometown. "They've been holding it while you were away."

Carelessly Wallace glanced at the pile. And it _was_ a pile, indeed – every single envelope had his name scripted onto the front, or painted in vivacious colors, or scribbled with cute bubbly hearts atop each of the letters. Sifting through them, he winced endlessly, all too aware of Winona's cold eyes burning into the back of his head. With one swift gesture, he swept them all into the trash bin at his feet. He turned around warily, but Winona had busied herself with her supper. Wallace served himself a bowl of noodles and sat beside her on the couch.

She was determinedly not looking at him, her knees bent under her chin, her bowl of noodles cupped warmly in her hands. "I didn't know you were still so popular," she said, rather coolly.

"I'm the Champion, love. Everyone knows my name. Steven got junk like that in the mail when he was champion, as did the Champion before him, and the one before him."

"Interesting. Did they participate in every contest that came their way, as well?"

Wallace shoved his dinner away and placed a hand on Winona's shoulder. "Winona, please. Don't do this. You _know_ I don't enjoy it. You know I have eyes for no one but you."

"Enjoy it? You love it," she said bitterly, shrugging him off. "Don't forget, I watch your contests, Wallace. You love the limelight. You love the hordes of girls squealing after you, fainting when you go by, begging you to sign their bodies in _lipstick_."

"There is a difference between enjoying the contests and enjoying the fame that they bring."

"Oh, be quiet," she hissed. "I don't want to talk about it. Just eat your dinner."

"Oh no, we're talking about this," said Wallace, whipping her bowl out of her hands. She tried to grab it back, but he held it one-handedly over his head, making her topple into his chest as she tried to snatch it. She frowned and jerked away at once, crossing her arms stubbornly. Setting the food on the coffee table, he placed both hands firmly on her shoulders and turned her towards him, even though she was still glaring at the ground. "Look at me, Winona. Please?"

Visibly miffed, she glanced up at him, her eyes smoldering.

"I thought you had gotten over all this," said Wallace, rather helplessly. "I can't change who I am. I can't change the fact that I do enjoy the stage, the thrill of performance, the applause. But what do I have to do to prove that you – and _only_ you – are the one I love?"

Tentatively he reached for her hand, and to his relief, she did not pull away. He squeezed her fingers as her eyes softened a little. They suddenly gained a little more of the cool kindness that he always loved to see - but there was still guilty resentment there, too, as solidly present as the violet and lavender glow and the slight redness at the corners. Had she been _crying_? Surely not. Swiftly he touched her face, brushed his thumb over her cheeks, her lips, her eyelashes.

"I'm sorry for all this," she muttered, staring sullenly at the ground again. "I don't like that I feel this way all the time. I'm like a jealous five-year-old."

"No, you're human," said Wallace. Inwardly relieved at her words, he pulled her into his arms and held her there, feeling very warm as she shifted until she sat comfortably, her head on his far shoulder, her weight resting on his legs, and her feet dangling off the end of the couch. Wallace kissed the top of her head, twice, until she turned her head up and caught his lips instead.

"Stay here tonight, then," she murmured. "And tomorrow. Don't go to the League. Your challengers can wait another day."

"Done."

"And do your own laundry. And clean the kitchen when we're done with dinner."

"Done, though probably with less promptness than your first request."

"And one more thing," said Winona, calmly ignoring his frivolity. She moved so that her legs leaned against his chest, her bare feet snuggled warmly between his knees and the couch. She turned her body into his, stretching, and pressed her lips to his cheek before whispering smoothly in his ear. "Stay here tonight, and make it a night I'll remember, hm?"

She asked it so easily, so casually; a familiar thrill tingled through Wallace's body from the place her lips touched. He kissed her firmly and tangled a hand in her silken hair.

"Done. Undoubtedly with much more enthusiasm than laundry or dishes can inspire."

"Oh, be quiet, you," she grumbled, pulling his face back down to hers and effectively cutting off any further complaints.


End file.
